“I know,” I reply.
And I do.
This isn’t about stepping into a role or rewriting the past. This is about the present and the future intersecting, whether I want them to or not. I glance down at Julian again, committing every detail to memory like I might need it later—the curve of his cheek, the faint crease between his brows, the way his chest rises and falls.
We move through the rest of the routine together without speaking much. She prepares the crib in the spare bedroom,since it’s closer and warmer than the bassinet, while I walk him slowly back and forth.
When I finally lay him down, he stirs but doesn’t wake. His fingers curl briefly around my thumb before loosening again, and the contact sends a sharp, unexpected jolt through my chest. I step back, hands dropping to my sides, watching him sleep.
After watching him for what feels like not enough time, we shift to the living room. Kate and I stand by the window, not quite touching, nor quite apart. The air between us feels charged, heavy with everything unsaid. I’m aware of her in a way that has nothing to do with threat or necessity. The way she shifts her weight when she’s tired, the faint crease between her brows she gets when she’s thinking too hard. The scent of her—clean, warm, and faintly citrus—cutting through the ever-present cinnamon.
She turns to face me, eyes searching mine, and for a moment neither of us speaks. The silence stretches, not uncomfortable, just full.
“Once this is all over, we—“ she starts.
I shake my head once, stopping her.Not now.She closes her mouth, nodding slowly.
I don’t plan it.
That’s the thing that gets me—not the want or the pull, but the fact that it happens without strategy. Without the careful mentalchoreography I apply to everything else. One moment we’re standing there in the quiet aftermath of putting a child to sleep, the next the space between us has narrowed until it barely exists at all.
Kate’s hand rests against my chest, fingers splayed, as if she’s checking for something solid beneath the skin. I don’t stop her or say anything. Words would cheapen this, reduce it to something smaller than it is. Her gaze flicks to my mouth, then back to my eyes.
“I know it’s weird saying this—“ she begins, then stops herself. She swallows and continues. “But I missed you.”
She chuckles awkwardly to ease the tension. The words are caught in my throat, so I answer by leaning in and capturing her lips with mine.
This kiss is nothing like the others we’ve shared. There’s no urgency in it, nor the sharp edge of desperation. It’s slow and intentional, my mouth fitting to hers like we’re both aware that this time, walking away would mean something.
Her breath stutters softly when I deepen it, my hand coming up to cradle the back of her head, fingers threading through her hair. She melts into me with a quiet sound, her body pressing closer without hesitation.
I feel it everywhere. Not just want, but recognition of the one woman who keeps flipping my life upside down each time she walks into it.
My other hand settles at her waist, grounding us both. I keep the kiss unhurried, letting it stretch and deepen, letting her feel exactly where I am and that I’m not going anywhere. She responds in kind, hands sliding up my arms, touch tentative at first and then sure, like she’s testing whether I’ll disappear if she leans too hard.
I don’t, and I won’t.
When we break apart, it’s only because we have to breathe. Our foreheads rest together, breaths mingling, the moment humming with restraint.
“This is different,” she whispers.
I nod once. “I know.”
I guide her toward the bedroom without urgency, every step intentional. There’s no tearing at clothes, no frantic need to get skin on skin as fast as possible. I take my time peeling layer after layer, learning her again in this new context—how she relaxes when she feels held, how her body responds when she realizes I’m paying attention to every reaction of my skin on hers.
When I set her naked self down on the bed, illuminated by the moonlight, I can’t help but note how her body has been changed by motherhood. Her breasts are a cup size bigger, hips wider, with stretch marks on her thighs and stomach.
She reaches out to cover herself from me. “I know I’ve changed. We don’t have to—“
I growl in warning, silencing her with a kiss that steals her breath and words away. She moans, arching her back into my touch. I reach between us to cup her breast in my hands. She whimpers into the kiss when I pinch her nipple.
“Never, ever say that again. You’re beautiful. The most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, and trust me, I’ve seen plenty,” I assure her.
She blushes, her whole face turning pink. “Thank you,” she mutters.
My lips find hers once more as her hands travel lower to grab my cock that’s nestled against her thigh. I hiss as she wraps her fist around me, swiping her thumb across the head.
“Fuck,” I groan as I shift between her legs, replacing her hand with mine as I align myself with her.
